


Drowning

by zoestertoaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John-centric, M/M, Mermaid Harry, Post-Reichenbach, Soulmates, ex-mermaid John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoestertoaster/pseuds/zoestertoaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock were dead, John would be dead, too.  John has questions.  Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning

John Watson really, really, really did not want to be where he was.  It was cold today at the edge of the beach (the edge of John’s world, ever since he’d made That Choice), and everything here was gray: rocks, beach, sand.  But it was important.  He was desperate.  It had to be today, because there wasn’t any sun.

And besides, he thought, almost slipping down the side of the rock, he hadn’t seen Harry in ages.

“I sent you a message, Harry,” he said, when he reached the edge of the tidepool.  “I don’t know if you got it.”

There was a rushing, and a roaring.  Though the tide had gone out, the waves crashed up to shore.  John jumped back, but the spray hit him and burned like acid.  And there, in the tidepool, sat his sister, long green tail wrapped up around her.  More like an eel than a fish.  Graceful, and reptilian.

Underwater, her curls would have looked soft and tidy, but above they were a ratty mess.  She wore nothing.  Her nudity bothered him a little bit, but only because he had gotten used to the ways of the land-dwellers.

To tell the truth, his sister frightened him.  It was so deep-rooted that even Sherlock hadn’t picked up on it, because if John concentrated on who his sister had been above the ocean, he could dredge up all those feelings of frustration that came with the alcoholism, and Sherlock only saw those.

Sherlock, if John could help it, would never see any of that other world.

“I did,” she said in their language, splashing her tail about a little.  John eyed it with mistrust, and she stopped.  “You know I couldn’t answer it.”

Her voice was low, pretty, and reproachful.  It was in fact the general tone of their language, when heard by English-speaking land-dwellers.  If John had chosen differently, he’d probably still be fluent enough to hear the nuances without trying.  As it was, when he concentrated, he could make out worry.

“I saw him die,” said John, in English.  “But he can’t be dead, Harry.  I’d be dead too.”

“And yet there was no magic in his death,” she said gravely.  “Or you wouldn’t be here, asking me.  You would have felt it.  Surely you can’t have lost that, too… Or, you’re afraid you have, and you’re here to ask if I felt something that strong?”

John nodded.

“Well, I didn’t,” she said.  “But Sherlock Holmes would never resort to magic.  He’d feel it was beneath him, if he could even recognize that it existed.  I honestly don’t understand what you see in that man.”

“We’ve already had this discussion,” snapped John.

Yes, this was a mistake.

Or maybe not.  Harry, who had somehow always been better with people when she wasn’t one, backed off.

“I suspect you’ve tried to find him?”

“Using every trick I learned from our parents,” he said.

She nodded, and ran her hand gently along a nearby hermit crab, so as not to disturb it. 

“They miss you,” she said.  “Mary, too.  And me, of course.”

_Mary_.

“I can’t,” said John.

“I know,” she said, and grinned.  John shivered.  Her teeth were green, and pointed.  “But I can still make you feel guilty about it.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he said honestly.  “If I can’t find him—he doesn’t know, Harry, I couldn’t ever tell him.”

“You could always come back,” she said.

Hope shone in her big, eerie eyes, which were similar to his own except with split pupils like a cat’s.

And while he was frightened, he missed home, too.  It wasn’t the place for him, but it was beautiful. Sometimes, being above water was too bright and cold and sharp, and he longed for the warm green of below, seaweed wafting in the currents between the big gray rocks in which they made their dwellings, and the far-off ripples on the surface looking like an ever-present sky full of stars.  He still dreamt of being down there, although when he did dream of it mostly he dreamt of Sherlock with pointed green teeth and cat-pupil eyes.

Sherlock, with a long, flat hammerhead shark tail—which would be smooth against John’s own green eel-tail, when they’d wrap them around each other—

“Never,” said John.

She shrugged.

“There are ways.  Even if he’s not dead…  You say blood was spilt?”

The bile rose in John’s throat.  He couldn’t respond.  It began to rain.

“I see the thought is distasteful to you,” said Harry quietly.  “Never mind.  Be careful, baby brother.  The world up there is a frightening place.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” asked John.

“If he doesn’t, he’ll die,” she said.

“He doesn’t know that.”

“He’s smart.  He’ll deduce that eventually,” she said.  “It’s an instinct. Though from what you’ve said, he seems to ignore those?  But we’ll look, John.  I can’t promise you anything.”

“Thank you,” said John, breathlessly.

“I have to go soon,” she said.  “I’m sorry for your loss.  I’ll do the best that I can.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” said John.

The wave began far back.  John could see it out of the corner of his eye, foam gathering at the top.

“You’d better go,” said Harry.  “But—come here for a moment.” 

He bent down, knowing what she was going to do, and tried not to flinch at the acid-burn brush of her lips against his cheek.

“It’s lucky,” she said, without a trace of humor.  “And you need it.”

“Thank you,” he said, returning it, because that was just as lucky, and because the wave was very close, he turned and sprinted before it could get to him.  When he looked back, the tidepool was empty.


End file.
